Beautiful Mind
by HollyRose31523
Summary: It is Halloween, the feast is over and Quirrell is just about to get rid of the Mountain Troll in the girls bathroom, when he suddenly gets unexpected company from a student. This is a sequel to "Unhappy Birthday".


Disclaimer:  
I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters, but I like having them run around in my sometimes twisted little world.  
Happy Halloween everyone!

* * *

 **Beautiful Mind**

Quirrell was heaving a deep sigh as he stared down on the fully grown Mountain Troll that was lying in front of him on the bathroom floor. It was knocked out – knocked out by some first years – and that had not been in Quirrell's plans at all. The original idea had been to let the Troll in, so it would cause confusion, which would have allowed Quirrell to hurry to the third floor, where the entrance to the Philosopher's Stone's hiding place was. Finally Quirrell had found it and it had pleased his master, still, Quirrell had not figured out how to get to the precious item. Unfortunately, the entrance to the place where it was hidden was guarded by a huge three-headed monster – Hagrid's pet dog as it had turned out – and there was no way to get past that vicious creature, at least not in one piece, Quirrell reckoned.  
He had failed. Again. His master would not stand for that.  
Tiredly, Quirrell rubbed his hand over his face and sighed once more, when suddenly a sharp voice in his head made him flinch.  
"What is it, Quirrell?" it demanded. "I can't remember punishing you, so why are you making these sounds?"  
"I have a problem, master," Quirrell said, miserably.  
"You *are* a problem, Quirrell," the voice established. "Unfortunately, you are *my* problem, since I decided to make you my servant and now I am stuck with you, until you manage to get me the Philosopher's Stone, which you don't! Tell me, Quirrell, why can't you do anything right?"  
"I don't know," Quirrell admitted. "But be assured, master, I am trying as hard as I can."  
"Try harder!" the voice suggested. "You are not putting enough effort into the quest you are on and I am losing my patience with you!"  
"Please, master, don't give up on me yet," Quirrell begged. "I don't know why my plans are always unsuccessful. And now I have a fully grown Mountain Troll on my hands that I have to get rid of."  
"Dispose of it then," the voice said, coldly. "And hurry. My time is running out – and so is yours."  
Quirrell nodded. He knew all too well what would happen to him, when his master lost his strength. The thought made him shiver and suddenly, for the first time, he regretted ever falling for those sweet promises of power and glory that his master had lured him in with. Maybe it had been better just to have walked away, but it was too late for that now.  
"What do you suggest I should do, master?" Quirrell asked timidly.  
"I suggest you do as I said," the voice replied. "You know that otherwise the consequences will be severe."  
As if Quirrell could forget. Too often lately he had to bear his master's mood swings and they had always ended in a terrible headache that had made Quirrell want to run up walls.  
"I know that, master," he said quickly. "But I meant, what am I to do with the Troll?"  
There was a short but annoyed silence.  
"If I am not mistaken … and I am never mistaken … the Troll was your idea," the voice then answered. "So clean up your own mess! And don't you dare expect any help from me."  
"I expect nothing from you, master," Quirrell said silently.  
"And you shall receive it," the voice replied, almost sweetly. "In abundance."  
"Thank you, master," Quirrell whispered.  
There was no point in arguing. His master had made it perfectly clear that Quirrell was on his own in this Troll matter and with another deep sigh, Quirrell sat down on the toilet seat in one of the destroyed cubicles and propped his head on his hand.  
How should he get rid of this unconscious monstrosity? He would have to wait until the Troll woke so he could take it out the way he had brought it in: shrinking it to human size – for it could take serious brain damage if Quirrell shrunk it any smaller than that – and lead it out by hand back to where it came from. But it could take hours before the Troll might wake – and bringing it back would take some hours more. Quirrell wouldn't get any sleep tonight – but then again, he rarely did lately. There was too much to worry about, too many tasks to fulfil, too many failures which had occurred and too many punishments for every time he failed in fulfilling his master's tasks, and yet it was his master's lack of mercy that worried Quirrell the most.  
But maybe that wasn't the problem. Maybe the problem was him? Maybe his master was right after all. Maybe he was a failure. Maybe he deserved the punishments.  
Quirrell rubbed his hand over his face and shook his head, when suddenly something caught his eye. There was a heap of books leaning against the poor remains of cubicle wall, bound together with a leather belt. It looked familiar, but Quirrell couldn't remember where he had seen this bunch of books before.  
Carefully, he picked it up, removed the belt and opened one of the books.  
"Property of the Hogwarts' library" was written on the first page.  
Quirrell bit his upper lip. Then he opened the second book, only to find the same inscription on it.  
That was strange. Who would carry a bunch of library books around and leave them in this bathroom cubicle?  
Curiously, Quirrell opened the other books as well and finally, on the fifth book, he found a name – a name that brought a smile to his face.  
He should have known …  
Slowly, Quirrell put the books together the way they were and wrapped the belt around them. Maybe he should bring back the books to their rightful owner, instead of waiting for a Troll to wake, which might take hours, while bringing back these books would take thirty minutes, tops …  
The books under his arm Quirrell stood and carefully he sneaked past the Troll, taking the long way around, for the shortcut to the door was blocked by the huge body on the ground, but Quirrell stopped, when he suddenly heard hurried footsteps approaching.  
"Holy cricket!" a young voice exclaimed. "It's still here!"  
Gulping, Quirrell looked to the door. He knew that voice. It belonged to the owner of the books he had just found and, quickly he hid the books behind his back, just in time before only a moment later Hermione Granger appeared in the doorway.  
"Oh …" she gasped, when she recognized Quirrell staring at her. "Apparently, so are you, professor."  
Hermione Granger smiled, nervously.  
"Good evening … again."  
"Good evening, Miss Granger," Quirrell replied. "Up so late?"  
"Well, er… yes," Hermione Granger answered. "I er… I was just looking for my books."  
"Your books?" Quirrell repeated.  
Hermione Granger nodded.  
"Yes, my books."  
"Why would you look for your books here of all places?" Quirrell asked.  
"Er…"  
Hermione Granger bit her lips.  
"I don't know, where else to look for them."  
"Again, my question," Quirrell said, calmly. "Why here, exactly?"  
"Because I took them with me, when I went after the Troll," she answered, but it sounded like a lie.  
"And why would you take your books with you when you go after a Troll?" Quirrell demanded.  
This time Hermione Granger didn't answer at all.  
"Did you think you might need them, in case you forgot the spell to disarm the Troll?" Quirrell suggested. "Or did you want to read it a bed time story, lulling it into sleep?"  
Hermione Granger averted her gaze and remained silent for a long while.  
"Are these the books you were looking for, Miss Granger?" Quirrell finally asked, bringing the heap of books forward and holding them up by the belt around it.  
Hermione Granger lifted her head and looked at them.  
"Yes," she then answered. "Those are mine. At least some of them are."  
"I guessed so," Quirrell admitted. "One of them bears your name on the first page. The rest are Hogwarts property."  
"Yes," Hermione Granger said, but didn't meet his eyes. "I borrowed them from the library for a bit of light reading."  
Quirrell looked at the huge volumes, tangling from the belt and frowned.  
"You call this *light*?" he asked, incredulously.  
Hermione Granger shrugged.  
"This is pretty heavy stuff, Miss Granger," Quirrell pointed out. "Literally."  
"I like heavy stuff," Hermione Granger said, coming a step closer. "May I have my books back, please?"  
"Of course," Quirrell said, handing her the books. "I was just about to bring them to you, anyway."  
Hermione Granger looked at him, confused.  
"Why would you do that?"  
Now it was Quirrell's turn to become a little nervous.  
"Well, I had nothing better to do," he answered.  
"You have a Mountain Troll to take care of," Hermione Granger retorted. "How about that?"  
"There is nothing I can do right now," Quirrell replied. "It's still unconscious. You and your classmates did a pretty good job there."  
"Yes, I guess we did," Hermione Granger agreed, looking at the Troll. "Will it be all right?"  
"I suppose so," Quirrell said, confidently. "You can't harm a Mountain Troll, really. They are pretty tough. Nothing knocks them over."  
"Except when they get a blow on the head with their own club!"  
"Is that how you did it?" Quirrell asked.  
"Technically, Ron did it," Hermione Granger explained. "I only gave him instructions, while Harry was distracting the Troll."  
"Distracting the Troll?"  
"Well, it sort of grabbed Harry by the feet and tried to club him."  
Quirrell had to suppress a smile at the mental image. It served the boy right for meddling into something that he shouldn't meddle into.  
"It failed, though," Hermione Granger added. "But trying to club Harry kept the Troll busy, until Ron could get the spell right."  
"Which spell?"  
"Wingardium leviosa."  
"The levitation spell," Quirrell mused. "Very clever idea. Yours?"  
Hermione Granger smiled, proudly.  
"We learned it today in Charms class," she explained. "I thought it could work with the Troll."  
Amazed, Quirrell shook his head.  
"What a clever little witch you are!"  
"I don't know", Hermione Granger said, evasively. "I guess we have just been lucky."  
"No, no," Quirrell contradicted. "It was your cool nerve and cleverness that saved you all. Professor McGonagall was quite right, when she said that only very few people encounter a Mountain Troll and live to tell the tale."  
"Oh, professor!"  
Hermione Granger made a dismissive gesture.  
"You make me sound like a heroine."  
"Maybe that's what you are."  
"No, I am just a book worm," Hermione Granger replied, holding up her books. "I'd be lost without them."  
Quirrell nodded, thoughtfully. It was true. Whenever he thought of Hermione Granger she was always carrying books around …  
"Well, since I got what I came for I probably go off to bed now," she tore him out of his thoughts. "Thanks for finding my books again, professor, and for your good intentions."  
She smiled.  
"Good night," she added and turned to leave.  
"Miss Granger!" Quirrell held her back and instantly she stopped.  
"Yes, sir?" she asked, turning to face him again.  
"Don't you want to know, where I found your books?" Quirrell asked.  
"Er…"  
Suddenly, Hermione Granger looked nervous again.  
"Where did you find them?" she asked, carefully.  
"In that cubicle over there," Quirrell answered. "Leaning against the wall."  
"Oh …"  
"Tell me, Miss Granger," Quirrell began. "Why would your books be in that cubicle, when you went after the Troll to take it on?"  
Hermione Granger gaped.  
"Did you hide them there first?" Quirrell suggested. "Or is there anything else you would like to tell me?"  
Hermione Granger took a deep breath, then she nodded.  
"Alright", she gave in. "I'll admit it."  
"Admit what?"  
Hermione Granger sighed.  
"This is a secret," she said in a whisper. "Please, promise me, you won't rat me out."  
"I am not going to promise you anything," Quirrell answered, trying to put on a stern face, but failed. "Besides, who would I rat you out to?"  
"Professor McGonagall," Hermione Granger suggested. "Or worse, Professor Snape. He is already on to me."  
"On to you?" Quirrell repeated, astonished. "What do you mean?"  
"I mean, whenever I raise my hand in class, he gives me these looks as if he would like to kill me or something," Hermione Granger answered. "I can only hope I am reading him wrong."  
"You certainly do," Quirrell replied. "I'm sure he doesn't want to kill you."  
"But that stare of his", Hermione Granger added for consideration. "With those black eyes …"  
She shuddered.  
"If it is any consolation, he gives me those looks, too," Quirrell admitted. "Except in my case he really does want to kill me."  
"Why?" Hermione Granger asked, curiously.  
"That is a long story."  
Hermione Granger clutched her books to her chest and folded her arms around them.  
"I have time," she announced. "So tell me."  
"It is kind of a boring story, really."  
"Tell me anyway!"  
"You're first," Quirrell demanded. "What's the secret, you were talking about?"  
Hermione took a deep breath.  
"Alright, here it is …" she began. "I didn't go after the Troll as I told Professor McGonagall. It sort of came after me."  
"What?" Quirrell gasped.  
"I have been here in this bathroom the whole afternoon," Hermione Granger explained. "I didn't feel like being amongst people and I certainly didn't feel like attending the Halloween feast."  
"Why not?"  
"Well, Ron said some very nasty things about me," Hermione Granger said, miserably. "Behind my back, of course, but I heard it and it hurt me, so I ran away and hid here."  
Quirrell looked at her intently and when he noticed her red-rimmed eyes he realized that hiding hadn't been all she had been doing here.  
"You have been crying, haven't you?" he ventured a guess and reluctantly Hermione Granger nodded.  
"A little, yes."  
"A little?"  
Hermione Granger sighed.  
"Alright," she admitted. "A lot."  
"So, basically the whole afternoon," Quirrell established.  
"Basically, yes."  
Quirrell exhaled deeply.  
"What on earth did this dunderhead Weasley say that it made you cry the whole afternoon?" he asked.  
"He said that I was a nightmare," Hermione Granger answered. "And that is wasn't any wonder that I didn't have any friends."  
Quirrell felt his left eye beginning to twitch. Many moons ago people often said the same thing about him and he knew how much that hurt. Part of him even wanted to comfort the little girl that was standing there in front of him, pouring her heart out, but then he remembered that he probably should not do that, seeing that he was just her teacher and not her friend, even though it did feel a bit like she could be his friend – if she hadn't been his student.  
"Anyway," Hermione Granger continued. "When I was done wallowing I left my cubicle and there it was …"  
"The Troll?"  
"No, a horrible stench," Hermione Granger explained. "And a moment later I saw it."  
"The stench?"  
"No, the Troll," Hermione Granger improved again. "It was big. Huge. I mean, you can see it right here."  
Indeed, Quirrell could, since the Mountain Troll was still lying there at his feet, unconsciously, and snoring a little.  
"Yes, I see it," Quirrell agreed. "Beautiful, isn't it?"  
"Beautiful?" Hermione Granger gasped. "It's horrible! Look at it!"  
"I am looking at it," Quirrell said, admiringly. "But I don't see anything horrible in it."  
"You can't be serious!"  
"Yes, I am serious," Quirrell confirmed. "I think Trolls are magnificent creatures."  
"What?" Hermione Granger exclaimed. "But they stink like a garbage bin, they have brains of the size of peanuts and their skin looks like a dead elephant."  
"But they are perfectly designed for the environment they live in," Quirrell added for consideration. "By the untrained eye a sleeping Mountain Troll is easily confused with a real mountain, so they can live a peaceful life and you should see …"  
"You are fond of Trolls!" Hermione Granger interrupted, amazed. "Aren't you?"  
Quirrell nodded, smiling shyly.  
"Yes, I am."  
"How extraordinary!" Hermione Granger exclaimed, sitting down on the Troll's arm.  
Fortunately, the Troll didn't seem to mind, for it was still knocked out and would be for a while, so Quirrell didn't intervene.  
"Oh, please, tell me more, professor," Hermione Granger demanded. "You must know all about them, I presume."  
"I know a bit," Quirrell said, modestly. "I have encountered a colony of trolls on my travels and I found them fascinating, so I studied them thoroughly. Their behaviour, their social skills, their language …"  
"They have a language?"  
"Sort of," Quirrell answered. "A very simple one that consists mostly of grunts, but they have a great variety of intonations which all mean something different."  
He chuckled.  
"I remember that one time, when I tried to tell them that I was leaving to look for food and accidently chose the wrong pronunciation."  
"What happened?" Hermione Granger asked, eagerly.  
"I ended up on a tree."  
"What?" Hermione Granger gasped, her eyes widening. "Why?"  
"Well, apparently, instead of telling the leader of the colony my intention of collecting food I insulted him by calling him a brainless pillock," Quirrell explained. "And since he was so easily offended …"  
"… he put you into a tree."  
"Well, he threw me into a tree," Quirrell improved. "That's quite a different experience."  
"Did he at least get you out of the tree again?"  
"Eventually," Quirrell answered. "Approximately five hours later and only by accident."  
"What sort of accident was that?"  
"He needed a toothpick," Quirrell explained. "So, he ripped out the branch I was sitting on."  
"You poor thing!" Hermione Granger said, compassionately.  
"Indeed," Quirrell agreed. "I fainted, because his breath smelled like a dead man, and I fell off the branch."  
"Did you hurt yourself?"  
"Only a little," Quirrell replied, overwhelmed by the keen interest Hermione Granger was showing. "But it was worth it. I learned a lot that day."  
"Don't insult your friendly neighbourhood Mountain Troll?" she ventured a guess and Quirrell couldn't help but chuckle.  
"Well, that too," he agreed. "But first and foremost I realized the importance of the correct pronunciation."  
"See, that's what I told Ron in Charms class today," Hermione Granger replied. "He always pronounced the spell wrong, so naturally it didn't work. But these things are important, even if they seem small and benign. They are all part of the big picture that you can only see, when your work is done."  
"That is a very astute remark, Miss Granger," Quirrell praised, but Hermione Granger sighed.  
"Look," she said after a pause. "Why don't you just call me Hermione?"  
Quirrell bit his lip.  
"It wouldn't be appropriate," he said, evasively.  
"But it would be nice."  
It would, Quirrell agreed, but he didn't dare to say it out loud. Some things just couldn't be pronounced, even if one felt comfortable with them.  
"Maybe you shouldn't sit, where you are sitting right now," he suggested instead. "The Troll might wake soon and you really don't want to be around when it does."  
"Why?" Hermione asked. "Do you think it would recognize me?"  
"Normally, I would say, Trolls don't possess the power of recall, but in your case I think it might remember you after all."  
Hermione frowned.  
"What do you mean, in my case?"  
"Well, look at you," Quirrell said, pointing at the broken mirrors on the wall. "Please. Take a look at yourself and tell me what you see."  
Reluctantly, Hermione stood and walked over to the one mirror that wasn't shattered to pieces and inspected her reflection.  
"My hair is too frizzy, my nose is too snubby and my front teeth are too chipmunky," she finally declared. "Otherwise I look quite okay."  
"Take it from me, you look more than 'quite okay'," Quirrell replied. "Give it a couple of years and you will turn out to be a jaw-dropper."  
Hermione gasped.  
"Really?"  
"Really."  
"You're so kind," Hermione said, turning away from the mirror. "You really are."  
"I am just honest."  
"No, you are kind," Hermione insisted. "I can't think of anyone, who would invite a stranger to his birthday party just like that. Do you remember your birthday party?"  
"Of course I remember," Quirrell answered. "I am not a forgetful person. And you were not exactly a stranger."  
"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl," Hermione added and it made Quirrell frown.  
"Two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl?" he repeated. "What a great imagination you have!"  
"It's not mine, exactly," Hermione admitted. "I heard it somewhere in a song."  
"So you care for music?"  
"A bit," Hermione answered. "Not everything takes my fancy, but there is some great music out there. Do you have a favourite piece of music?"  
"Well …" Quirrell began. "I like harp music. On my travels I came across a harp player. She played it so beautifully and I instantly fell in love."  
"With the harp player?"  
"No!" Quirrell said, quickly – too quickly he realized, and he couldn't help but blush.  
"I see," Hermione said with a mischievous grin.  
"I fell in love with her music," Quirrell insisted, although he knew that Hermione was already on to him.  
"Of course you did," she chuckled. "And I almost believe you."  
Quirrell sighed.  
"Actually, I like harps as well", Hermione added. "They are the instruments of the angels. Do you have one of your own?"  
"An angel?" Quirrell asked, hesitantly.  
"No, a harp!"  
"I do, even though I am not exactly an angel," Quirrell admitted. "At the beginning of the school year I was looking for something, which I thought was hidden in the Room of Requirements, but I found the harp instead."  
"Do you play?"  
"Only a little and very poorly," Quirrell said, regretfully. "But sometimes I put a spell on it, so it would play by itself. It helps me sleep."  
"You have trouble sleeping, then?"  
"Yes," Quirrell answered. "I get night terrors quite often and afterwards I find it hard to fall asleep again."  
"Night terrors, huh?" Hermione said, miserably. "Tell me about it!"  
Quirrell shrugged.  
"There is not much to tell, to be honest …"  
"No, no!" Hermione interrupted. "What I meant was … I know what you mean."  
"Really?"  
Hermione nodded.  
"I suffer from them, too," she admitted. "Quite often, actually, and for no reason at all. I have no idea where they come from. It's completely inexplicable, but night after night I wake from those horrible dreams and no matter how tired I am I don't even dare to close my eyes again. I'm just too afraid that those nightmares might return."  
"Is that why you are up so late?" Quirrell asked. "Because you dread to go to sleep and have bad dreams again?"  
"No."  
"But tonight you will have a good reason for having nightmares," Quirrell added for consideration. "You encountered a Mountain Troll today … twice."  
"I also encountered you," Hermione replied with a smile. "Twice."  
Quirrell didn't know how to respond. He was completely stunned and he could think of nothing he could possibly say, so he said nothing.  
"Don't worry about me," Hermione added after a small silence. "I'll sleep fine tonight. Much better than this Troll here, I presume. Then again, I don't plan on knocking myself out with a giant club."  
"A wise decision," Quirrell said, thoughtfully. "I don't dare to imagine the headache this poor creature will have when it awakes. I hope it won't blame me."  
"So, you are going to stay with it?"  
"I'll have to," Quirrell replied. "I am the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, so it is my job to get rid of it."  
"What are you going to do?" Hermione asked.  
"Well, wait, for a start, until it wakes," Quirrell answered. "And then I will have to take it home to its family."  
"Family?" Hermione repeated. "That Troll has a family?"  
"Yes," Quirrell confirmed. "A lovely family of seven. They are living together quite happily at the far end of the Forbidden Forest, near the mountains. Usually, they don't leave their group, at least not alone. I presume his family must be worried sick by now."  
Hermione stared at the Troll, then she looked at Quirrell.  
"Do you know this Troll personally?" she gasped.  
Quirrell inhaled deeply.  
"Yes."  
Instead of a reply Hermione just gaped.  
"May I now tell you a secret?" Quirrell whispered.  
Hermione nodded.  
"Of course you may."  
Quirrell took another deep breath, then he lowered his voice.  
"I let the Troll in."  
Unmoving, Hermione stared at him.  
"Did you hear what I said?" Quirrell asked, confused. "The Troll lying here on the ground, unconscious … I let it into the castle."  
Hermione blinked.  
"You let the Troll in?"  
"Yes."  
"That Troll, the Troll lying here on the ground?"  
"Yes.  
"You let it into the castle?"  
"That's what I said."  
There was a moment of silence and in a way Quirrell was relieved. He had expected Hermione to scream blue murder or just to run away faster than her Mary Janes would carry her to rat him out, but she did neither. She did something else. Something Quirrell had never expected – she burst out laughing.  
"That is a good one, professor," she said, giggling. "Really. You let the Troll in! What a thought! I never guessed you'd be so funny!"  
"This wasn't a joke," Quirrell replied, seriously. "I really let the Troll into the castle."  
"Enough!"  
Hermione laughed, wiping her eyes.  
"You're doing me in!"  
"That's not my intention," Quirrell said, quietly. "Really, it isn't."  
"Then stop it already," Hermione demanded. "Just stop!"  
Quirrell sighed and hung his head.  
"Alright," he gave in, miserably. "I'll stop."  
"Thank you," Hermione said, and trying to catch her breath she slumped down on the Mountain Troll's hand.  
It took a moment until she had calmed down a bit, but then she looked up.  
"No, I mean it, thank you," she said again. "This was just what I needed. A good laugh. You really cheered me up."  
"I am happy to be of service," Quirrell replied, dully.  
"And I appreciate it," Hermione retorted. "You have such a great imagination, professor. But I am not surprised. With a beautiful mind like yours it is to be expected."  
Quirrell remained silent. He couldn't think of anything to say. All he ever received were insults or pranks being played on him, but getting compliments was new. It felt nice though, especially since the compliment came from a bright student like Hermione Granger.  
He looked at her and she smiled at him and it was something in that smile that made Quirrell crumble.  
"It wasn't a joke, though," he added. "It was all true I told you."  
Hermione looked at him for a long while.  
"Why do you think I would believe even for a minute that you would do such a horrible thing as to let a Troll into the castle?" she then asked. "Imagine what could have happened! Lives could have been lost."  
"Maybe that was my initial plan."  
Hermione shook her head.  
"No," she said, softly. "A beautiful mind such as yours would never come up with such a plan, even if it was meant as a Halloween prank."  
"Then how do you think the Troll came in?" Quirrell asked. "You said yourself they have brains of the size of peanuts and I won't object you in that point."  
"Well, you also told me, that in some cases trolls do have the power of recall," Hermione retorted. "Maybe this Mountain Troll, since you know it and it knows you, wanted to pay you a visit, but it got lost on its way and ended up in this bathroom."  
"Why would a Troll pay me a visit?" Quirrell snorted.  
"Because you are a kind person," Hermione replied. "You are kind to everyone, including trolls. You even find them fascinating. And such kindness will be remembered."  
"Maybe I am not as kind as you think I am," Quirrell added for consideration. "Maybe I am capable of things beyond your imagination."  
"Like what?" Hermione asked, chuckling. "Are you a mass murderer or something?"  
Quirrell sighed.  
"Let's just say, if you knew, who I am, you wouldn't consider my mind beautiful."  
"Well, tell me, who you are, then," Hermione suggested. "Tell me all about you."  
"I'd rather not", Quirrell refused.  
Hermione pursed her lips.  
"You think I am too young to understand, don't you?"  
"No."  
"Then you don't want to tell me, because I am your student?"  
"No," Quirrell answered. "I don't want to tell you, because I know you will think badly of me, when you get to know the real me."  
"I promise I won't," Hermione said and it sounded honest, but Quirrell shook his head.  
"Don't make promises you can't keep," he replied.  
"Alright," Hermione agreed. "Then I'll promise that I will cut you some slack, no matter what sort of person you turn out to be."  
"Actually, I don't know myself what I will turn out to be," Quirrell admitted. "I only know what I am right now … and I don't particularly like it."  
"Well, I like what you are right now."  
"And what am I you reckon?"  
Hermione thought for a while, then she smiled.  
"You are a troll tamer, obviously," she began. "And you also are a wondrous wanderer on the search for something you cannot quite grasp."  
Quirrell huffed.  
"You are not so far off," he answered.  
"What are you looking for then?" Hermione demanded.  
"Something precious."  
"Something of great value?"  
"Beyond imagination," Quirrell said with a sigh. "And far out of my reach."  
"Maybe you are just looking at the wrong place," Hermione suggested. "Maybe what you are looking for is closer than you think. And maybe if you stopped looking for it, it will come to you."  
Quirrell stared at Hermione for a long while, then he sighed.  
"I wish it was as simple as that."  
"Maybe you just need help?" Hermione added.  
Quirrell threw a laugh.  
"And who would help me?" he asked. "My colleagues? Hardly! My students? Certainly not!"  
"Me," Hermione established.  
Quirrell frowned.  
"You?" he asked, astonished. "Why would you want to help me?"  
"Because."  
"But I'm a laughing stock!"  
"Agreed, you are not very popular," Hermione admitted. "And apparently you don't have friends."  
Quirrell nodded.  
"Then you must be very lonely," Hermione presumed.  
Instead of an answer, Quirrell sighed.  
"I have company, from time to time."  
"Human company?" Hermione asked.  
Quirrell hesitated. He wasn't quite sure if his master was at all human. He certainly lacked humanity.  
"Sometimes," Quirrell said, evasively.  
"Like right now."  
Confused, Quirrell looked at Hermione.  
"What are you trying to say?"  
"Well, I am here with you now," Hermione explained. "I could have left a while ago, but I didn't. So what does it tell you?"  
Quirrell shrugged. Actually he had asked himself the same question: What was the girl still doing here? Why was she taking any interest in him? No one ever did – so why her?  
"And just for the record," Hermione added. "I don't think you are a laughing stock."  
"Then you are the only one who thinks so," Quirrell said, bitterly. "Everyone else does. My colleagues find me strange and talk behind my back and my students are even worse. They don't take me seriously either, that's why they play pranks on me all the time and …"  
He paused, when it suddenly hit him.  
"What?" Hermione demanded.  
"I assume you are doing it as well right now," Quirrell said, tonelessly.  
For a moment Hermione seemed stunned, but then her expression became sad.  
"Do you know me that little?" she asked. "Do you actually think I would do that?"  
Quirrell shrugged.  
"Don't you know me at all?" Hermione continued. "Don't you realize that we are pretty much in the same boat here?"  
Quirrell sighed.  
"Two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl …" he whispered.  
"Exactly," Hermione agreed with a small smile. "I am lonely. I don't have friends. I am not popular. People don't take me seriously. They laugh at me, because they find me strange and talk behind my back. Ron even says I am mental, that I need to sort out my priorities. Well, I did. I chose to be clever rather than popular and I am proud of it. And so should you."  
"I have done very little in my life to be proud of," Quirrell admitted. "In fact I am beginning to believe that I am a failure."  
"Well, I beg to differ," Hermione retorted. "If you were a failure you wouldn't be able to get your stutter under control."  
Quirrell gulped, but before he could tell himself off for neglecting his cover as the poor stuttering professor again, a horrible headache flashed his brain and made him wince.  
"It's the headache again, right?" Hermione presumed.  
Quirrell nodded. How could he have been so stupid? Forgetting his made-up speech impediment again! He didn't even realize it. Instead, he had been idly chatting away with this girl …  
This girl! What was it about Hermione Granger that made him forget his act entirely? She was just a student, meaningless and yet … she managed to distract him from his task.  
"Can I help you?" Quirrell heard her offer, but he couldn't reply.  
The pain was mind-numbing and it took him all his strength not to collapse right in front of her.  
"Is there anything I can do?" Hermione asked, concerned, but Quirrell shook his head.  
"Just go," he whispered. "I'm alright."  
"You don't look alright," Hermione contradicted. "Are you sure you …"  
"Go!" Quirrell demanded. "Please!"  
"Alright," Hermione agreed, reluctantly, taking a few steps back. "Alright, I'll go."  
Quirrell squeezed his eyes shut, holding his head with his hands and listened to the noise her feet made on the stone floor, when she hurried out of the bathroom.  
After a moment, Quirrell opened his eyes and sighed. She was gone and suddenly, so was his headache.  
"You are such an unbelievable fool," the voice in his head taunted him. "Are you completely insane? Or are you just out of your beautiful mind?"  
The sarcasm wasn't lost on Quirrell. Obviously, his master had listed to every word, but didn't intervene, only to punish him even more now.  
"Telling the girl you let the Troll in!" the voice snorted. "Really, Quirrell, is this your idea of a joke?"  
"No, master, I …"  
Quirrell sighed.  
"I don't know why I told her," he admitted. "It sort of slipped out."  
"Slipped out?" the voice repeated. "You confided in a silly student! If I hadn't intervened just in time, you would have told her that this stutter of yours was only an act!"  
"No, I'd never …"  
"Shut up, idiot!" the voice hissed. "You were this close to spilling our whole plan!"  
"Master, I …"  
"How could you be so careless?" the voice cut Quirrell off again. "Didn't I specifically tell you to keep everything to yourself?"  
"Yes, you did," Quirrell answered. "But sometimes it is very hard not to talk to anyone else except you."  
"Oh," the voice said, astonished. "So I am not good enough anymore?"  
"I never said that."  
"But you want other company, don't you?"  
"Well …"  
"What exactly do you wish for, Quirrell?" the voice asked, sweetly. "What is your heart's desire?"  
Quirrell bit his lips.  
"Another lost soul swimming in a fish bowl?" the voice suggested.  
Quirrell sighed, sadly.  
"I just don't want to be lonely," he admitted. "That's all."  
"You are not alone, Quirrell," the voice reminded him. "I am here. I am always with you and I will never leave. You are stuck with me until you manage to get me the Philosopher's Stone!"  
"I am trying to, master," Quirrell declared. "I really am!"  
"All you are trying is my patience," the voice improved. "But I have got enough. From now on, every mistake, every failure, every step out of line will be punished without mercy, do you understand?"  
"Yes, master."  
"My orders will be obeyed, is that clear?"  
"Perfectly clear, master."  
"Good," the voice said, satisfied. "Then let's put it to a test, shall we?"  
"I promise I won't fail, master."  
"Don't promise anything you cannot keep, Quirrell," the voice advised. "Because my first order is to get rid of the nasty beast you call a magnificent creature."  
Quirrell gasped.  
"The Troll?" he asked in a faint whisper.  
"Yes, Quirrell, the Troll," the voice confirmed. "I want you to kill it."  
Quirrell swallowed hard.  
"Kill it?"  
"Yes, kill it, didn't you hear what I said?"  
"I heard what you said, master, but, there might be another way to get rid of …"  
"Do you question my orders, Quirrell?" the voice asked, dangerously low. "I told you to kill the damn thing, right here and now."  
Quirrell felt his heart beginning to race and his palms starting to sweat. He couldn't do it. He couldn't take the life of an innocent creature and certainly not a Troll.  
"Why are you hesitating, Quirrell," the voice demanded. "The thing should be dead by now! Why is it so hard to cast the Killing Curse?"  
The Unforgivable Curse! Quirrell gulped. Never before he had used it or even thought about using it – and he wouldn't start now, no matter what the consequences were.  
"I'd rather like to get rid of the Troll another way," Quirrell said, feebly.  
"No, Quirrell, you will get rid of the thing exactly as I told you!"  
"But why kill it?" Quirrell wailed. "It has done nothing wrong! It was my mistake, mine alone."  
"You won't obey my order, then?" the voice asked.  
"I will get rid of the Troll," Quirrell promised, trying to sound firmly. "But not by killing it."  
There was a long silence.  
"Very well," the voice said, evilly. "Prepare for a punishment beyond your great imagination."  
Quirrell clenched his teeth, hoping for the best, but expecting the worst – and it came. A horrible headache that knocked him from his feet so he fell to his knees, trying to suppress a scream.  
"Now, how do you like it?" the voice asked, but Quirrell had difficulty to grasp the question.  
Too horrible was the pain, mind-numbing and seemingly everlasting. Quirrell was on the brink of passing out, when the pain subsided a little and he could think clearly again. Trying to catch his breath, he struggled to his feet, bracing on the rim of a half-destroyed sink and through a haze he could see that the Troll was slowly regaining consciousness.  
His hand was shaking, when he reached for his wand, pulled it out of his sleeve and pointed it at the Troll.  
"Avada kedavra," the voice in his head shouted and it took Quirrell all his strength not to repeat the words.  
"Stupify," he managed instead, which sent the Troll back to sleep and his own mind into oblivion and the last thing Quirrell remembered was noticing how badly the Troll needed a toenail clipping.

When Quirrell came to the Troll was gone. Unfortunately, his headache wasn't, but that didn't matter anymore. Quickly he stood and when he looked around he noticed the note someone had left on the mirror.  
"The headmaster asked me to take care of the Troll, which I did, since you were unable to do so," the note read. "He also suggested, you take the day off tomorrow and recover from the shock you have suffered. The headmaster already cancelled your classes, so there is no need to worry except perhaps about the snide remarks that will surely await you on your return. Best of luck to live them down. S. Snape."  
There was a PS on the note, too.  
"I am on to you," it said, but it was the next sentence that really made Quirrell gulp. "In case, you haven't noticed, this is a warning – not a friendly one, mind, because I am not your friend."  
Quirrell heaved a sigh. The headache was terrible, almost unbearable still, but at least the Troll was safe now. It was all that mattered. One day he would get used to the headache and if not, at least one life had been spared. An innocent life.  
But what if it hadn't? What if Snape had 'taken care' of the Troll in his own way? What if Snape had destroyed it?  
Quirrell gulped. If the Troll had come to harm he would never forgive himself. It was all his fault!  
But no. Thinking about it, it wasn't. Someone else was to blame for this whole mess he was in. Harry Potter. He was responsible for this. If anyone, he needed to be taken care of, for he was the one, who defeated his master in the first place and made him into what he was now: a parasite in Quirrell's head.  
Harry Potter needed to be destroyed and Quirrell would do it. But he wouldn't tell his master of this new plan – it should be a surprise. Maybe then his master would sing his praises for once – even though Quirrell wasn't sure if his master cared for music at all.


End file.
